


5 Times Someone Asked Karen Where The Punisher Is Now

by FortySevens



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Karen keeps getting asked a certain question, One Shot, and she's tired of it yall, post tps1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortySevens/pseuds/FortySevens
Summary: 5 times someone asked Karen where the Punisher is now.5 times Karen more or less lied in her answer.(Plus 1 time no one asked, but Karen had an honest answer anyway.)
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	5 Times Someone Asked Karen Where The Punisher Is Now

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in the shower the week of Thanksgiving, after I got my ass kicked at physical therapy (as one does). I got 90% of it done before family shit happened (as it does during the holidays), and had to dig myself out of a mini mental shitstorm. 
> 
> I also originally mentioned that it was going to be a part of After, but then I realized it was going to be much longer, so here it is by itself. 
> 
> Post TPS1, AU for everything from there.

**1\. Mitchell Ellison**

Mere days after the incident at the hotel, and hours after Karen reads report after report of a shooting in Central Park that’s being played off as gang violence, Homeland Security throws Frank Castle’s name into the void.

  
The party line is Lewis Wilson and Billy Russo, two teenage hostages and an unnamed member of Homeland Security in ICU, and that’s all there is to it.

And no one is taking questions at this time, thank you very much.

  
“What do you think this means for Castle?” Ellison asks after calling her into his office and telling her to shut the door before he showed her the press release they received from the Communications branch of Homeland Security.

Like Karen, Ellison is also smart enough to connect the dots.

Karen reads the statement once, and then again, but none of the words filter through her brain and stick like they should—there’s a chance her mild concussion was a little more than mild, and she should have taken more than the afternoon and following day off before coming back to work after being held hostage and nearly blown up.

“Page?”

Her eyes flick up to meet the knowing gaze of her boss, who is still pissed enough at her and the fact that she hid knowing that Frank was alive in the first place.

“Even if I did know, I probably shouldn’t tell you, right?” She shrugs one shoulder, tries to play it off, but probably fails because it was the shoulder she landed on after the explosion, and the motion sends a flare of pain down her back that she can’t hide. “Let’s call it plausible deniability.”

“Plausible de- _my ass_ , Page,” Ellison scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest. “You knowingly put yourself in danger and it’s giving me gray hairs—more gray hairs. Ben wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself.”

She scowls, “That’s _dirty_ ,” she hisses and throws the statement back on the desk, then sighs again. “But I really don’t know. Haven’t seen him since the hotel.”

Ellison looks her in the eye, like he can pick the truth out between the lines of her irises.

“Get out of my office,” he finally says, but with a fond shake of his head. “And let’s try to keep you from getting blown up again for at least another week. Until your guardian angel has time to come back out of the woodwork.”

Karen blanches, chokes on a laugh—not at the idea of Frank walking around with a little golden halo around his head, but at the potential look on Frank’s face if anyone ever gave him that mental image.

“I don’t think he’d take being called that all that well.”

Ellison snorts, “Get back to work, Page.”

**The Truth**

The truth is, Karen has no fucking clue where Frank is.

She liked to think that they were close enough for him to put up a flare—hell, the roses have been in her window for days no—but all has been radio silent since the hotel.

In light of the incident at the carousel, which—oh god, no again—it kills her a little to think of what that might mean for him.

He could be dead, he could be buried in a hole so dark and deep the CIA and Homeland and everyone else involved in the mess that led to the death of his family will never let him see the light of day again, he could be hurt, or he could just be in the goddamn wind.

And the likelihood that she ever gets a chance to tell him Ellison called him her guardian angel, just to see the look on his face?

Slim to none.

It’s not the first time since they met that she thought him dead, but somehow—now it hurts worse.

**2\. Dinah Madani**

“Where do you think Castle is now?”

Karen’s brow twitches in barely-masked irritation as she finishes pouring a glass of water from the stainless steel Tiffany carafe next to the bed. She hands it to Dinah, who is cushioned by a pile of pillows on a bed that gives Karen just a little niggling of envy at how large and crisp and plush it is, “You’ve seen him more recently than I have. I should probably be asking you that.”

“Yeah, but he likes you better,” Dinah says, pointed, and her double-black eyes make her think about how Frank looked in the diner, right after he escaped from prison.

“Doesn’t mean we talk all that much.”

Between a week ago when she just hoped he was still alive and now that it’s been confirmed—along with the rest of the story, and holy shit her fingers itch to write a whole goddamn series of exposes about Operation Cerberus, William Rawlins, Billy Russo, Ray Schoonover and the rest of the massive goddamn mess, but she can’t.

Dinah doesn’t have to tell her just how much she can’t.

And it sucks, because the world deserves to know the real reason Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr., died.

Being able to write about the sting at the park isn’t enough, but it’s all she’s going to get, and she understands why—the world doesn’t need to know just how badly the CIA fucked up, and they made amends to Frank, in a way.

Speaking of—

“Do you really think the CIA is going to keep their word, stay away from Frank?”

It’s a question that exposes her, more than a little bit, but Dinah is the second person she knows who took a bullet to the side of the head from Billy Russo, and that’s, well, one hell of an exclusive club.

“You’ll expose them if they go after him, won’t you?”

“I probably shouldn’t answer that question,” she says, prim, as she sits back in her seat. “But one wrong move, and Kandahar’s going to be splashed across the headlines. My editor would kill me if he knew this is the real story I’ve been hiding from him.”

“You’re very protective of him,” Dinah says, but it isn’t news to either of them. “He inspires a lot of loyalty. You, David Lieberman-“

There aren’t very many more than that, but—

“He did a lot for me, and that’s before you got involved.”

Dinah nods, slow, and decides to change the subject, “So, what’s next for you?”

Oh wow.

It turns out there _is_ something she’d rather talk about less than Frank.

**The Truth**

The truth is—well, the truth is something she knows she probably could get away with telling Dinah, but also—

It’s really not her place.

Because the truth is, a couple days ago, she got a call.

Not from Frank, but from Curtis Hoyle, who served with him back in the day, back before Kandahar.

“ _Look, our mutual friend will probably strangle me when he finds out I called you, but I think you should know he’s up and kicking. Looks like shit, but is up and kicking_.”

It’s not a lot, but certainly more than she’s gotten from the man himself.

But when it comes down to the real reason why she didn’t share the news with Dinah—that Frank’s hanging around somewhere in the city—is that she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with the news.

Is she supposed to just shrug and go on with her day?

Is she supposed to be waiting for a call from Frank to follow?

Is she supposed to put the roses back in her window?

She doesn’t know.

And until she figures out what she is supposed to do with what she knows, or even hears from the man himself, she’s not going to say a word.

Not to anyone.

**3\. Some Nameless Intern at The Bulletin**

Look, Karen feels bad about it—really, she does—but she can never get The Bulletin interns’ names straight.

They filter in and out of the office in little cohorts from Columbia, Barnard, NYU, Fordham, St. Johns, Yeshiva, Hunter and more, often enough to make her head spin, and certainly not long enough for any of them to learn her coffee order, let alone to give her time to actually learn their names.

A reedy kid who’s haircut _screams_ , Future Conservative News Talking Head taps on the doorframe to Ben office—no, _her office,_ it’s her office and it’s been that for more than a year, “Hey, Karen?”

She blinks up from the draft she was editing, “Yes?” She winces a little on the inside for not knowing the kid’s name, even though he’s been around the bullpen in the afternoons the last couple weeks. “What’s up?”

He takes that as invitation to come stand in front of her desk, his hands stuffed in the pockets of trousers definitely purchased thanks to daddy’s expense account, “So, some of the guys and I were wondering about something, and I volunteered to come ask.”

Her brow hikes to her hairline.

What could this possibly be about?

“Ask away.”

“Well, you know The Punisher really well,” _oh crap_ , not this, she’s got a big enough headache as it is. “And so, we have this bet going, about if you actually know where he’s hiding out or not. And that you can get in contact with him. You totally know, right? You have to.”

Karen takes a deep breath, and then another.

It wouldn’t do well for her to traumatize the interns.

Ellison _hates_ when she traumatizes the interns.

“Look,” she says once she’s gathered her thoughts, and really, she should try to make an effort to learn the kids’ names, and maybe they’d ask her about the stories she actually works her ass off for, rather than the ones she just—accidentally falls into. “I hate to break it to you, but The Punisher is dead.”

The kid scoffs at that, “Really? You’re throwing out Homeland’s party line too? Come on.”

Like she’s going to tell some uptown brat what she really knows.

“Sorry if you don’t like the answer, but that’s the thing about journalism. Sometimes you dive deep into a story you think is going to make you into the next Walter Cronkite, but ultimately, it just goes nowhere,” she shrugs a shoulder as the kid sulks his way out of her office. “Sorry about your bet!”

**The Truth**

The truth is, she really doesn’t know where Frank is these days.

And she probably could get in touch with him, if she needed to.

Because he did call her last week. Scared the crap out of her when her phone started ringing at 1 a.m. with a blocked number flashing on screen, but the mini-heart attack was worth it.

They met up at the river that next day, he filled her in on his side of the story she got from Dinah, and then told her about how he’s trying to set his life to rights, whatever that means.

He doesn’t know yet.

It feels a lot like there’s something unfinished hanging between them when he walks away, but Karen doesn’t know even what to say, let alone how to say it yet.

Frank needs time, but so does she.

But it’s also a comfort to know that Frank’s out there, somewhere in the city, and he’ll call her when he’s ready.

**4\. Foggy Nelson**

“So, Castle, huh?”

Poor Foggy—Karen isn’t sure he’s even sounded more awkward.

It’s been so long since they’ve been able to catch up—what with, well, Castle for her and a very demanding, high-powered law career for him.

In light of everything that they have to talk about, they decide Karen’s apartment is a much better place to hash everything out than somewhere like Josie’s.

Though, even at Josie’s it’s doubtful anyone would bat an eye at their conversation.

With a shake of her head, Karen grabs the glasses of wine she just poured and pads out of her tiny kitchen, hands on glass to Foggy before perching on the windowsill next to the pot of roses.

She mostly keeps them there because they’re pretty, but also almost on the verge of dying and need all the sunlight they can get.

And if she hopes that Frank might see them and come over, well—

That’s something she plans on keeping to herself.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Fog.”

He takes a long sip from his glass, “I mean, the man is terrifying, but he did save your life—more than once, right?”

“Yeah.”

He nods a few times, like he’s taking in all the information, trying to make sense of it, before he finally asks, “You ever wonder why?”

No.

She’s never had to wonder.

But there’s no easy way to explain that to Foggy.

“When it comes to Frank,” she tries not to stumble over his name, even though she knows Foggy expects her to refer to him as The Punisher, even if that’s something she’s never done. “I have all the answers I need.”

“I just want you to be safe, and this is—“

She takes another sip, “You and I both know that I’d be in danger with or without Frank in my life.”

The looming specter that is the currentlyincarcerated Wilson Fisk goes unspoken, because the last thing she wants to do is taint the relative peace in her apartment with memories of what that monster did to this city, to Ben, to her.

Nor does she like thinking about what she did to Fisk’s right hand.

Not at home.

Foggy sighs, looks down at his hands, “I just want you to be safe.”

She smiles at him, salutes him with her glass when he finally looks back up at her, “Thanks Foggy,” after another sip, she decides it’s high time to change the subject. “Tell me how things are going with you and Marci.”

The smile she gets in return is blinding, and she loves that he’s found happiness.

**The Truth**

The truth is, she does have an idea of where Frank Castle is right now.

She and Frank talk on a semi-regular basis now. Not nearly every day, but he’ll text her from time to time, let her know he’s alive, which is more than what she got the last time Frank Castle was declared MIA and likely dead.

This weekend in particular, she knows, Frank is spending a few hours at the group meetings he attends—the ones she knows are hosted by Curtis Hoyle—and then Sunday night dinner at David and Sarah Lieberman’s House.

Karen can’t help but be a little excited for him about that. He mentioned off-hand how he had been invited to spend Thanksgiving with them, but decided to drive off without a word instead, and she knows it’s because he wasn’t quite ready to be thrust into that much normal.

Not after everything that happened at the carousel.

But now, weeks later, it seems like he’s ready to ease into it.

She told him to call her after he was done with dinner, in case he wanted to talk.

And while it’s not like she’s going to wait at home all night on the off chance that he does decide to call, she is going to make sure to keep the ringer on for him.

After everything, it’s the very least of what he deserves.

But the last thing Foggy needs is another Frank Castle-induced heart attack, so she’s going to keep that information to herself.

**5\. Trish Walker**

“Karen, I want you to know,” Trish starts off with a teasing glint in her eye that also manages to come off as sympathetic. “When I told my audience that you were coming on _Trish Talk_ , I got hundreds of replies, comments, DMs, emails, letters, even a carrier pigeon with a note tied to its leg, asking me to ask you this question.”

Since it’s just the two of them in the booth—after the mess that was the Ricky Langtry show, Karen didn’t _want_ to go on the radio again any time in the next hundred years, but Trish begged and Ellison ordered, so here she is.

“Lay it on me,” she fires back with a confidence both she and Trish know she doesn’t feel.

Trish reaches across the desk and squeezes her hand, “Well,” she says. “My audience is dying to know—where do you think The Punisher is now?”

“I wish I had a better answer for you, and all your listeners, Trish, but The Punisher is dead.”

Between them, the switchboard lights up, and Trish rolls her eyes at it before holding up a note to her producer, telling him to start screening the calls for someone who’s going to ask Karen a softball or two.

“But what if he isn’t?”

Karen frowns at Trish, who shrugs her shoulder, “That’s a really interesting question,” she says to save her a little time. “I think, when it comes down to it, I would hope The Punisher, that Frank Castle, is somewhere that he doesn’t have to keep fighting. He had been asked to do more than enough for one lifetime, two lifetimes even. The man, if he were still around, deserves a break.”

  
“That’s quite the non-answer, isn’t it?”

The switchboard continues to flash between them.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, considering it’s most likely that he is dead.”

**The Truth**

The truth is, Karen knows exactly where Frank Castle is right now.

Obviously, he’s not dead, that’s a given.

He’s at—well, it’s not a _home_ , per se, but he’s at the place where he lives.

It’s a one-bedroom apartment in one of the rougher areas of Hell’s Kitchen, but then again, what area of Hell’s Kitchen _isn’t_ rough?

She knows he can afford better—combining the money he’s squirreled away over the last year from the gangs he’s put down, plus the generous gift from Lieberman, _and_ the We Fucked Up, Please Have Some Money And Then Leave Us Alone Forever bribe from the CIA, Frank is going to be more than comfortable for a _while_.

But she also knows that he’s still punishing himself for a lot.

That takes time.

And she can only hope that while he’s home, he’s not listening to this interview.

Because he’s never going to let her live it down.

But she sure as shit isn’t telling that to the loyal listeners of Trish Talk.

**\+ That One Time No One Asked Where Frank Was, But Karen Had An Answer Anyway**

But the real answer?

Where is Frank Castle, _today_?

Well, that would be in a certain investigative reporter’s apartment on a snowy evening, pouring her a glass of wine after a very long day of deflecting what’s becoming her least favorite question of all time, _“Where do you think Frank Castle is now?”_

Seriously, it’s been weeks.

Why isn’t this old news by now?

“You know, I’m getting really tired of people asking me where you are,” Karen rants as she kicks off her shoes before taking off her coat and hanging it up next to Frank’s, next to his _sidearm_ , and the fact that he’s walking around her apartment unarmed is—not something she’s prepared to handle right now. “I’m a serious journalist. I write about things that aren’t you and your exploits, you know.”

Frank goes still, a frown flickering across his face, which is finally clear of the bruises he picked up after the hotel and the carousel, “I could—uh, I could go, if you want.”

It’s not until after the words were out of his mouth that Karen realizes he must think she’s annoyed with _him_ , which is, of course, _absurd._

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” she waves a dismissive hand, takes a quick sip of wine, because she sure as shit deserves it. “I just wish sometimes that people would ask me about things I could actually tell them about. Things that are more exciting than telling them you’re standing in my kitchen, giving me wine.”

That draws that half-smile out of him that’s always been one of her favorite things, all the way back to those first days in the hospital when _Nelson & Murdock_ took his case.

Once the drugs were out of his system and he wasn’t higher than a kite, of course.

“Like that time I got to tell Senator Ori to go fuck himself in front of his constituents and have pretty much ruined his career, after he, you know, _threw me at a terrorist_ ,” there’s that smile again. “That’s a great story, but _no_ , no one ever wants to know about me embarrassing a politician, they just want to know about _you_.”

He follows her out of the kitchen and over to her couch, “I wish they’d stop asking you, too,” he sighs, scrubs a palm over his face. “I don’t like people thinking they can connect you to me.”

“Frank, they _can_ connect me to you. Anyone with half a brain and a smartphone can pull up pictures from when I was working for your lawyers. Remember all those days in court when I was sitting next to you? There was media in here, and pictures exist. That ship has sailed.”

At that pointed reminder, Frank heaves a heavy sigh and scrubs his free hand over his face, “Karen-“

She reaches out, wraps her hand around his wrist, “It’ll be fine.”

“Not if I can’t keep you safe.”

Frank covers her hand where it rests on his arm, thumb stroking over her knuckles, and Karen sighs, dropping her forehead to his shoulder, “Look at what you’ve already done for me,” she says in the quiet that settles over her apartment, because she will never forget the way he looked before Lewis pulled her into that elevator. “It’s all going to be okay, Frank.”

He grunts, “How can you know that?”

“Because you and I both know I can’t afford to think otherwise,” he may not know the specifics about the deepest, darkest parts of her, but it doesn’t matter right now. He knows enough, and she hopes she’ll have the chance to fill him in on the rest, one day. “I can’t live in a world where I always assume the worst. No matter what’s happened to me, what’s happened to you, I just can’t do it. I have to run on the assumption that things are going to work out.”

“Wish I had half of your conviction, Page.”

She peeks up at him, sees him looking down at her like he doesn’t quite know what to make of her, which is not unlike how he looked at her down by the water when she told him that she worried about him probably more than he worries for himself, “I can hold onto the conviction for the both of us.”

There’s a minute where he just looks down at her, before he scoffs and shakes his head, “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Sitting up, Karen shifts so her knee presses into his hip, “What do you want to do?”

Pride flares deep in her chest when she notices Frank’s ears go red, and after a moment, he groans and tips his forehead to hers—it’s not unlike that moment in the elevator, but with a lot less blood and she doesn’t have pieces of industrial-grade refrigerator clinging to her hair, “Karen, I-“

Frank bites back whatever he means to say next, and Karen reaches up with her free hand, cups the side of his head and runs her thumb below the ridge of scar tissue above his ear, “Stop overthinking, Frank. What do you want?”

With a sigh, Frank leans away, but doesn’t go far and takes both her hands in his as he turns to face her fully, “Karen-” He breaks off, looks like he’s in pain, but he starts over before Karen can say anything. “For the better part of two years, I woke up every single day with unfinished business. I would not—I _could_ not rest until everyone who had a hand in my family’s murder was in the ground. I could only think of the mission. The war. But one of the few constants in all this _shit_ , has been you.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and Karen squeezes both hands, holds on.

“Somehow you figured out something was fishy about my case on day one, and you’ve been around in some way ever since. On the fringes, writing about the things I did for the paper, whether you knew it or not-“

She’s has a feeling he’s talking about the _murder-suicide_ she reported on in Little Italy, which—come on, does no one in NYPD understand what The Punisher’s actual MO is?

But that’s miles away from the point right now.

“Or right there in the goddamn thick of it with the shit with Lewis.”

Karen shrugs at that, and Frank levels a scowl at her and tugs on her hands, a playful gesture she’s never actually seen from him, and it makes her heart skip again.

“And for the longest goddamn time, Curt has been on my ass about this goddamn second life. Fuck, even before this mess started he was talking about me just—I don’t even know, having a new life, but I couldn’t. And now that my ID’s legit thanks to Madani and her friend at the CIA, he’s been after me about it again, and I just-“

He breaks off, looks away and swallows hard before he meets her gaze again, “I keep thinking about you.”

So many thoughts fly through her mind, but Karen can’t bring herself to say a goddamn thing, not with the way Frank’s looking at her like he—

Like he might see a future.

“I did everything I could to avoid it, or—ah hell, I probably didn’t even try all that hard. But that doesn’t mean I have any goddamn clue how to from where we are right now to what I can almost let myself see.”

When Karen woke up this morning, the last thing she ever thought Frank would do is come over, sit with her on her couch, hold her hands and lay all his cards out on the table.

She knows what he sees in the look on her face, and he takes a deep breath, “But I know what I am, I know what I did, and I can’t ask you to do this.”

And then Frank let’s go of her hands and stands up, turns like he’s just going to drop this bomb in her lap—shitty, shitty metaphor—and then just leave.

Karen scrambles to her feet and catches his arm, stopping him, “Frank,” she tugs and he turns back to look at her, and the ease that he does it tells her he probably doesn’t want to walk away. “You can’t just walk out of here without giving me a chance to respond to _any of that._ ”

There’s a second where Karen thinks Frank’s still going to try to walk out on her, but finally, he shrugs a shoulder, “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes, fond, and readjust her grip on his hand, squeezes tight, “I know who you are. I’ve seen what you have done. And I’m not going to stand here and say that we’re just going to ignore all that, but I am saying that I’d rather have you in my life than the alternative,” he kind of looks like she just punched him in the gut, but she keeps going. “Whatever it is you’ve seen, we’ll figure out how to get there.”

Frank finally meets her gaze, eyes a little wide, and she’s not sure what’s working its way through his mind, but finally, he nods once, slow, and cups his hand over her cheek. Reeling her in, Frank leans down and touches his forehead to hers, sighs again.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes Frank_ , I’m sure,” she nods, her nose brushing against his, and she squeezes the hand still holding hers. “Are you?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I am.”

Frank’s fingers flex against her cheek before sliding into her hair, and he leans in, presses his mouth to hers.

The reality of kissing Frank is like nothing she imagined, because— _obviously_ she did.

But this, this is better.

And they’ll figure out the rest.

Even if it means Karen’s going to be fielding questions about Frank’s location—and then lying about it—for the rest of her professional existence.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm FortySevensWrites on Tumbr!


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